Finduilas at Night
by junegloom
Summary: Finduilas is up all night, and Denethor disapproves.


With a start, Finduilas opened her eyes and discovered it was still dark. The man next to her was still, his pale chest sprinkled with a triangle of dark hair, rising and falling steadily. She let out her breath. It must be blissful to sleep so deeply, she thought, but of course said nothing. She couldn't tell the hour, only that it was still dark and would be for some time, and she closed her eyes again and sighed. Was it worth going back to sleep? The baby might wake and need her at any moment now, and it was better to endure the exhaustion of no sleep at all than to doze off with hope of rest, only to be awakened by his cries.

Boromir hadn't been like this, she admitted to herself. She remembered Boromir as easy, even independent for a baby. He had been born healthy and robust, sleeping long and often and leaving his mother to wonder at how he grew so quickly on seemingly so little milk. Even Finduilas's labor, the midwives had said, had been remarkably quick and easy for woman never before brought to childbed. It was less than an evening, and there was her first son before her, screaming and putting tiny fists into the air. A warrior, her lord husband had said smiling, and a fine one no doubt.

By comparison, Faramir had entered the world colored purple, barely breathing, and only after so many hours of agony that Finduilas would have thought it unendurable before she lived through it. When it was over, the midwives shook their heads, and gave Finduilas her baby that they were sure would not last. And she was exhausted, but left a surge of life through her as she could not remember feeling before, holding this gasping, wriggling thing. She had put him to her own breast, and the midwives had let her, whispering among themselves that this would be her only chance to hold this son, the poor thing. But she had wrapped him in linens and rubbed him vigorously as he suckled, and after an hour the color came into his tiny, wrinkled face, and his breathing grew steady. The midwives marveled at the miracle. Finduilas's miracle.

And since then, he had hardly left her breast. At all hours he was needing her, and while Denethor had given over to her will in the beginning, her lord was growing weary of it. "Boromir was not half so much trouble," he complained one night as she got up just as he had laid down, drowsily unlacing her nightdress and walking towards the cradle in the corner of the room. "Why do you not send for the wet-nurse and be in peace?"

"It is unthinkable, my love." She had yawned her answer, cradling Faramir to her in motions so practiced she hardly noticed making them any more. "I am his mother and he needs me."

"Boromir needs you also," Denethor had scolded. "He's only five and he's hardly seen his mother in weeks. When he has, she's been needed elsewhere within moments."

Thinking of this now, she knew her husband had been right in his irritation, but she couldn't bring herself to do any differently. For although Boromir had been the easier of her two sons, she had not felt the enormous lurch of her heart when she had first seen him, and she had not kept him so near as she did Faramir, refusing to be parted for even long enough to eat a full meal. She was subsisting on things brought to her on small, white plates- grapes, strips of pork, pieces of cheese- that she could eat with one hand while the baby ate also, and even that only at her lord's command. She loved her firstborn, but Boromir had not made the sun rise when he opened his eyes, and she had not clung to Boromir tearfully every evening as the pink rays streamed into her room and darkness creeped over once again.

And in this darkness, the sound she'd been waiting for pierced the air, and she rose from her bed to soothe Faramir before her husband woke. She did not succeed, and after she sat down she felt Denethor's warm, heavy hand on her shoulder.

"This is needless, Finduilas," he told her, his voice low and steady. "He will not die if he leaves your side." He paused and squeezed his hand. "You will not die if he leaves your side."

"I know," she answered. Against her will, a gasp of pain escaped her lips. She tried to disguise it as a sigh but her husband was not fooled. He removed his hand from her in disgust.

"He bit again, didn't he?" She could see him roll his eyes in the dim light. "It is remarkable. By all I can see, lady, you should hate the babe. He's brought you nothing but pain, and yet you hold him dearer to you than my heir."

"If you love me, husband, do not speak so ill of him. He's only a baby."

"Boromir was a baby also, and did not trouble you so. Boromir was- is!- strong and healthy, as a boy should be. Have you forgotten how your first born is, with so many hours of a screaming babe?"

"I have not," Finduilas answered, her lips curving slightly into a soft smile. Her little one was suckling happily away at her breast, and his round little face was peaceful, and she held him close.

"That is well!" Her lord began to pace the room. "That is well indeed, though he has nearly forgotten what his mother looks like, bereft of her as he has been these weeks. What will he do if you waste away in these rooms with that child? You barely sleep, you barely eat." Denethor paused, then continued, lowering his voice. "Any other man in his right mind would command you in this, as your lord and husband. But I love you, and as it is, Finduilas, I am only begging you. You are useless to your sons- Boromir and Faramir both- if you cannot be well again. Please, think of your health first. Send for the wet-nurse, what are we keeping her for if not to let you recover?" He pushed a glass of water that had been sitting on a table toward her. It took her a moment to notice. "And drink this," he murmured.

"Please, my lord," she whispered after she had drunk it down, her shoulders slumped. "I do not... Of course I love Boromir... but my lord, he is my- I will die if-." Her voice broke as she cradled the baby closer. He had drifted back to sleep and Finduilas did not want to wake him with her tears.

He sighed and rubbed his temples with his hand, then came closer, bent, and kissed her brow. "You will not die, my love." He tilted her chin up toward him, gently stroking her with his thumb. "In that I'm afraid I must command you. Let us speak no more of this tonight, lady." He came closer and took Faramir from her. He placed the baby into the cradle- gently but without kissing his cheek or stroking his head as she would have, Finduilas noticed. Then he guided her back to bed, his hand at the small of her back, and she faded into asleep so quickly that she did not know if her husband joined her or not.

* * *

The next time Faramir's cries woke her, the room was day-bright, though the sun was still low in the East. As she rocked the baby in her arms, she heard a boisterous voice coming from the hall. Boromir. He would want to see her, would come stomping in and break what little peace she could find. A feeling of guilt came over her, and she closed her eyes, listening.

"But why can I not? I haven't seen Mother at all today. And I am Faramir's brother, does he not need me too?"

"Later. And do not trouble yourself with your brother, my son." Denethor's voice answered Boromir. Finduilas was relieved to hear that her quiet sanctuary was not going to be invaded, though through the heavy door Finduilas was not sure her husband had not said mother instead of brother. "A boy like you has more pressing matters. Come! I will take you to the smith and see how your new sword is coming along."

"Really, Father? I want to, I want one that looks like yours, Father! Father? Father! Do you think..." Boromir's exuberant voice trailed off as he bounced down the hallway after his father. They would spend the morning together, before Boromir began his lessons.

And this put Finduilas at ease some, and she smiled gently. Boromir was fine, a big lad who certainly did not need his mother trailing after him anymore. His father would see to it that he learned all he would need to know, and he would be a fine warrior and, in his time, a fine Steward. Surely she would be welcome to join them, but it was natural that a growing boy should be with his father more and his mother less. They seemed to prefer each other's company, anyway, without the hindrance of weak, needy little beings like Faramir and herself. Here in this room, still, was one who needed her, and here she would remain.


End file.
